


get well soon

by ranchboiii



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Prostate Massage, Size Difference, bottom keith in chapter one, bottom shiro in chapter two, i picked rugby solely on the arguably canonical evidence that shiro has big ol thunder thighs bye, marmora by mention, overuse of italics probably and i'm sorry about it !!!!, physical therapist keith, shiro gets pampered because he deserves it, shiro is an athlete, yoga instructor keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15832380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranchboiii/pseuds/ranchboiii
Summary: AU in which Shiro breaks his ankle, goes stir-crazy, and receives a blessing from his surgeon a la personal physical therapist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> completely self-indulgent !! I just wanted to write about someone taking care of shiro ok!!!! he is a tired man !!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own!
> 
> title from ariana's new album.... that _goodnight n go_ cover though am i rigHT

Shiro’s broken ankle is an unwelcome surprise.

When it happened, he thought it might be the end of the world. While he’d initially been concerned about missing the rest of the season, his teammates offered him not much more than pitying looks and cartoon balloons, which was the first indication that the broken ankle was a harbinger of change. Then, after a week at home on bedrest, he’d realized it was kind of nice to not be at training every day at four a.m., refreshing to eat less than nine chicken breasts for lunch, and ultimately relaxing to listen to music, tv, or even silence in lieu of coach Iverson’s ceaseless yelling.

With the pressure gone, he feels a peaceful sense of relief. 

The only thing that’d been really bothering him at this point was the fact that being home alone all the time was unfathomably boring, especially when paired up with the monotonous, deep pain that ailed him ever since the harder drugs had worn off. He didn’t have any family to take care of him and no one on his team could come visit because they were all still in the middle of practices, scrimmages, and trying to make regionals. 

In order to avoid the guilt and disappointment of being benched before qualifiers, he’d focused his energy into his hobbies which, now that going to the gym was off the table, were narrowed down to watching Netflix, reading his outdated six year-old Kindle Fire, and watching his neighbors work through a torrid, bilateral affair that threatened to end the marriage for good. Their house was all windows and no blinds and Shiro, while intrigued at first, was sort of shocked that anything could be kept secret at all in such a household.

But even those things had started to get old. 

Nearly five weeks into the incessant tedium, Shiro isn’t sure how much longer he can take without something that compares to seeing his team everyday. He misses the gym, the dumb music. Admittedly, he even misses coach Iverson.

His surgeon calls him in the afternoon on the day where he thinks he really is going to lose his marbles between contemplating his life’s meaning without rugby and coming to terms with how compelled he feels to watch another episode of his neighbors pointing fingers at each other and trying to figure out who banged who.

“Thank you for calling the Depressed Athlete hotline, the hotline you call when you realize that ball really _is_ life,” Shiro drones, staring dejectedly at the cast on his ankle as he dutifully answers his phone. “How may I help you today?”

“Oh wow, I’m glad I called,” Allura whistles. “Not holding up well then?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Shiro draws out the fine long enough for Allura to hear the emotive majors and minors of the movement. Her giggle on the other end gives him relief. “To be perfectly honest, I think I’m just bored out of my mind.”

“Naturally. Your body is used to a lot more dopamine than you’ve been getting. Have you been working out at all? No pressure on the left ankle, yes?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, fondling the drawstrings of his sweats, thinking about dopamine. “I’ve been doing my regular workout with one-legged modifications.”

“Wait—regular workout?” Allura sounds suspicious. “Does that include deadlifts?”

“No deadlifts,” Shiro says with such despondence that Allura laughs, a glittering, pitying sound. “Don’t make fun of my pain,” Shiro whines. “The least you could do is visit.”

“Shiro, you know I’m your friend, but I think you’ve forgotten that I am also a surgeon. A very busy surgeon.”

“Right,” Shiro pouts, knowing this is a fight he can’t win.

“Anyway, I figured you’d be down right about now,” Allura starts, the sound of paper rustling in the background suggesting she’s multitasking and so much busier than Shiro is. “So I phoned a friend and made some arrangements…” Her increasingly excited tone doesn’t bode well for Shiro, Shiro considers historically. “And unless you have any interest in getting a bionic ankle to match your arm… I’ve found you a physical therapist to start helping you get back on your feet. _Both_ of them. I’ve met him before, and I’ve got this feeling he’d be a good match for you.”

Shiro’s mouth draws to one side in thought. Prosthetic jab aside, he’d figured he would just go see the team’s physical therapist like everyone else. But maybe that isn’t such a good idea after all—he knows he’d feel left out if he got to see everyone and not play, especially since he feels so emotionally distant from his teammates. And the guys probably need the physical therapy as much as Shiro does, so he doesn’t want to take away from their time with the PT.

“Okay,” Shiro exhales. “Tell me more.”

  


*

  


The physical therapist is, apparently, an independent contractor who has studied various body arts from hatha yoga to capoeira. He works in a clinic nearby but specializes in house calls in order to best accommodate clients who may have accessibility issues and/or emotional traumas that make an at-home practice easier to engage in. Shiro doesn’t quite know where he fits in between all those things, but either way he’s excited to have someone visit the house.

Today is the physical therapist’s first day.

Shiro spends a long time hobbling around and cleaning the house in preparation. In moments like these, crawling around on his knees and hopping on one foot, Shiro is thankful that he’s a fairly low-maintenance, minimalist guy. The main course is laundry, but even then he’s been so pathetic that he’s been primarily wearing the same outfit for the past week and a half.

Wearing fresh, loose clothes in a fresh, clean house, Shiro sits at the counter and nibbles a Quest Bar, waiting for 2 o’clock to come and contemplating what Allura had meant when she called the PT “a good match” for Shiro.

The doorbell ringing brings Shiro out of his mind and hopping along to the door on one of his crutches. He catches glimpses of the man through the windows of the door and tries to piece together who he’s seeing. 

When Shiro opens the door and greets his new physical therapist, his breath catches in his throat.

“Hi,” says the man. “I’m Keith.” 

Keith is young, definitely younger than Shiro, and has a face that Shiro could look at forever. He has a grip on the handle of a folded massage table, swaying a little to counterbalance the weight. Over his shoulders is a black jansport with a little rainbow patch. He’s wearing Nike Kicks, form-fitting yoga pants, and a loose purple t-shirt with a logo for a sports medicine clinic called Marmora on it. The purple flatters his skin and eyes and black hair which is pulled into a low ponytail. He’s smiling like he’s getting paid to.

Which is what brings Shiro back to earth. He shakes his head a little and remembers—of course he’s getting paid. This man has a job and his job is to touch all over Shiro and take care of him and oh god he is really unreasonably handsome and Shiro is going to call Allura as soon as this is over and give her a piece of his mind.

“Hi,” Shiro echoes after what is probably too long an interval. “I’m Shiro. Let me get that for you,” he offers, gesturing toward the table.

“It’s fine,” Keith says, walking inside and maneuvering the table. “In any case, aren’t you injured?”

“Oh yeah,” Shiro recalls, still pulling himself together. “I mean, thank you so much for coming for me. I mean to me. To my house. Thank you for coming to my house.” Shiro wants to dismiss Keith and never do human interaction again; his own stammering is ugly foreshadowing.

“It’s no problem. That’s my thing,” Keith assures him. “Is there a specific room you intended for us to use today? One where you would feel most comfortable?”

“The living room,” Shiro shrugs. “It’s got a lot of windows and open space.”

“Good choice. It’s a nice place,” Keith agrees, letting Shiro lead him toward the living room. “Really spacious. You live alone?”

“Yep,” Shiro chirps, nerves setting in a little deeper. He tries to settle them with an easy smile, which he offers to Keith. “Just me.” Keith meets his gaze and returns the smile, which is when Shiro notices that his eyes might be his best feature. They’re big and deep blue and catch the light like glass.

When Keith is done setting up the table, he offers for Shiro to simply sit atop it so they can have an informal consultation.

“I understand if you’re a little nervous or uncomfortable,” Keith begins, and while this part sounds rehearsed, it’s still a relief for Shiro to hear. “I always like to chat first. If you’re open to talking about it, we can discuss how you got your injury and how it’s changed things for you.”

Shiro tells Keith about the pile-up of muscular rugby players under which he found himself and his ankle twisted at an unnatural angle. The weight of the break and the players made him realize something as he lay there on the grass, vision spotty from the pain and breath held waiting to be taken to the hospital. That realization was that he needed time away from rugby, more than just to heal from the injury. But the break had been clean for the most part and Allura had been able to reduce the fracture enough that Shiro is at the point where he’s well on his way to being without the cast in a week or so.

“I see,” Keith says. He thanks Shiro for explaining everything to him, and expresses such empathy that Shiro feels instantly better about their arrangement.

“So here’s my plan,” Keith starts. “You and I will be working together for about six weeks. I’ll come by every day for the next two weeks for two hours. After that, I’ll stop by every other day but our appointments will be a little longer then. How does that sound? Do you have time for all that? I know it’s a lot.”

“No, it sounds good,” Shiro nods thinking about how he has way too much time on his hands at the moment. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Keith says around a small smile. Locked on each other’s eyes, they lapse into a brief silence which Keith interrupts with the sweetest sigh Shiro has ever heard. “Alright. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

The kitchen and living room are bisected only by a difference in flooring, so Keith takes to the sink to wash his hands, talking as he goes along. “Allura told me a little about your situation too, by the way, so I’ve made up a plan of what we can do together.”

“Oh,” Shiro says, reclining onto his elbows and grimacing at Allura telling a stranger about how lonely and bored he is. Keith laughs at Shiro’s reaction and Shiro lets the twinkle echo in his ears. 

“Don’t worry,” Keith says. “She didn’t say anything that would slander your character.”

“How do you know her anyhow?” Shiro asks, not wanting to know.

“We met at a… work thing,” Keith says, rejoining Shiro at the table. “We hit it off. She’s cool. Then she started coming to my yoga classes. If you want, you can probably come too once you’re off your crutches,” Keith offers with a hopeful shrug. Then he shifts his shoulders in an almost coquettish way and says,“Something to look forward to, maybe.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, feeling high. “Maybe.”

Keith starts going through his backpack which is full of tincture bottles and soft-looking towels, keeping up the conversation: “So since you’re an athlete who’s been sentenced to general inactivity, your brain might not be getting the dopamine and serotonin you’re used to. I think it’d be productive if we worked on that through massaging and stretching. Does that sound okay to you?”

“Yes,” Shiro says honestly. If he was being totally transparent, it wasn’t just being active that he missed. It was being part of a community and group. Shiro was hungry for socialization, and more than that he was touch-starved as a result of his independence. “I’m up for anything.”

“Great,” Keith smiles. “We can start with the massage then? We’ll do that for an hour, take a break, then some light stretching,” Keith’s voice is low and raspy, soothing in a way Shiro isn’t expecting. “Are you comfortable taking off your shirt for this? You can keep your pants.”

“No problem,” Shiro says, a little too enthusiastically removing his shirt. Despite instructions, explicit rest isn’t exactly conducive to his body confidence, so he’s increased his sit-ups and ab routines to avoid losing fitness. 

Shiro feels validation for all those extra crunches—he catches Keith’s eyes flash when he tosses his shirt over the couch, and appreciates the confidence boost.

“Thank you,” Keith tells Shiro’s abs.

“I can lose the pants, too,” Shiro offers, Keith’s heady stare inspiring boldness.

“Good to know,” Keith clears his throat. “Alright, go ahead and lay down on your stomach. Do you have any trouble spots I should know about?”

“No trouble, but I do have this,” Shiro says, holding up his right arm. Facedown, he lowers himself slowly onto the length of the table.

“Badass prosthetic, got it,” Keith says. Shiro is flattered. “Any allergies or aversions to oils?”

“Nope.”

“Last question: chamomile, rosemary, or lavender? The lavender is a little strong,” Keith adds, holding three bottles under the table for Shiro to pick from.

“Anything’s fine. You choose,” Shiro says softly, anticipating how soon he’s going to be under Keith’s hands. It’s funny because while he knows what all of those things are but, feeling overwhelmed at the circumstances, he cannot for the life of him remember what any of them smell like in the moment. Leaving it up to Keith seems to make the most sense.

“I like the rosemary,” Keith says so quietly it might be to himself. Shiro listens to the sounds of Keith preparing his materials, the low volume of hypnotic music on a portable speaker, the quiet clicking of bottles.

Then suddenly, Keith’s hands are on Shiro. He starts at the center of his back and moves along the wings, tracing the defined lines and chasing them back up toward his neck. Working his neck until the muscles are finally loose, Keith moves methodically, occasionally checking in if the pressure is too much, asking if anything hurts. It’s so agreeable that Shiro nearly falls asleep at several points, fully enjoying the sensations of pleasure that come from being touched so attentively. 

At one point, Keith slides his hands down Shiro’s right arm. The weight of his touch is light and careful.

“Do you… How’s your sensitivity here?” Keith asks, pausing in his ministrations. “Allura mentioned it was kind of high tech.”

“She loves to brag about it,” Shiro responds groggily. “It can pick up sensations in a vague way compared to a flesh and blood arm, but you’re welcome to skip it if you like.”

This is when Shiro’s heart melts. Keith doesn’t skip past it. Instead of applying the same pressure the way he would to skin, Keith simply runs his hands along the prosthetic, down to the fingers, pushing slightly here and there. It’s strange because no one’s ever touched him there like this before. Before the weight of his emotions gets too heavy to bear, Keith seems to read his mind, moving on to the other arm.

Keith spends a while on his lower back, then follows Shiro’s spine down to his tailbone. If Shiro had been asked about his opinion on butt massages, he might’ve said he had no strong feelings one way or the other. But after today, he’s confident that he would happily pay someone for an hour long butt massage. Or maybe it’s just Keith.

“You’re really tight here,” Keith’s voice hoarse and soft, pressing into the muscles that cradle Shiro’s shoulders. Shiro groans in response from the pressure and Keith draws his hands back immediately.

“Are you okay?”

“Mhmm, just hurts,” Shiro mumbles, ignoring the double entendres that keep cropping up.

When Keith’s touch returns it’s so gentle that Shiro’s heart feels like it’s being squeezed. Keith eases back into the pressure and loosens up the tight spots as best as he can.

Shiro’s favorite part is the butt massage until Keith moves to the front of the table so he can have access to Shiro’s head and Shiro thinks he might cry. Fingers tenderly card through his hair, scrape over his scalp, brush behind his ears.

Keith flips him over at one point and works his shoulders again, his legs, his right foot. It’s pure bliss.

Unable to keep track of time on the table, Shiro is only slightly surprised that the hour is up when Keith pulls his hands away and he hears the faucet running in the kitchen.

“Take your time getting up,” Keith says. 

Shiro, a regular rule-follower, takes his sweet time. Finally upright again, emollient and dazed, he rubs his eyes open so that he doesn’t just lay back down and fall asleep.

“Was that alright? Here drink this,” Keith asks, standing in front of Shiro and handing him a bottle of water.

“More than alright,” Shiro smiles in spite of a yawn, gladly taking the water. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to skip stretching? I think I wiped you out.”

“No it’s okay I’m fine let’s do it,” Shiro says in one breath, trying to dismount from the table. In his enfeebled state, he completely forgets that his left ankle is broken and tries to stand on both feet. Before he can process the pain and all the movement, he realizes that Keith has caught him in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, sobering up a lot more quickly than he’d hoped. Then he starts thinking about Keith’s lithe form and how he’s half a head shorter than Shiro but still managing to hold him up. His face goes hot like a firecracker. “Y-you’re strong,” he thinks aloud.

They’re both blushing now and Shiro feels ridiculous.

Eventually, they make it to the floor where Keith lays out two mats.

“So tell me about your team,” Keith says, guiding Shiro into a comfortable leg stretch.

“They’re great,” Shiro says fondly. “I’ve been playing with them for almost two years now. Well, I guess just one since I dropped so early this year. But they’re playing a qualifying match to make it to state finals next week. I wish I could go see them.”

“Why can’t you?” Keith asks, transitioning into a wide-legged pose, leaning forward onto his hands. Shiro mimics him and then drops to his elbows just to show that he can. Keith does the same and his t-shirt is loose enough that Shiro can see down it.

“I,” Shiro attempts to recover. “It’s a little too far from home, and I’m not allowed to drive, so…”

“Have they come to visit you? Maybe one of them could give you a ride,” Keith tries, stretching an arm over his head and deeping his sitting splits.

“They’ve been pretty busy with practices,” Shiro shrugs. He’s been trying not to think about how the guys have hardly stopped by at all lately. Although they would often pop by to check in during the first couple weeks, Shiro can count a full calendar month between the last time he saw any of them. 

Something was there that he still wasn’t ready to confront.

Perhaps Keith sensed this, because he chimes back in. “Well let me know if you end up going so we can move our appointments around, okay?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, feeling a little defeated. Enough sulking, he decides. He wants to know more about his physical therapist.

“So how did you get into sports medicine?” Shiro asks. Keith stands up and instructs him to lay down on his back so he can help him stretch a little more deeply. Shiro tries not to think about the implications.

“My dad was a firefighter and my mom is a police officer,” Keith says, pulling and pushing on one of Shiro’s legs, folding and bringing it up to his chest. “So it made sense to enter a career of serving others.”

“That’s really admirable,” Shiro grunts as Keith yanks his leg in a direction he was not aware it could go. _Rugby is kind of meaningless in comparison_ , Shiro thinks, a small note of sadness playing in his chest for some reason.

“The clinic is run by some family friends, too,” Keith continues. “It feels like I’ve always sort of had a path carved out for me more or less.”

Whether there’s gratitude, fondness, or bitterness in Keith’s tone, Shiro’s unsure. But before he can dig any deeper, Keith is pulling away and sitting back down on his mat.

“But I find ways to split from that path every now and again.”

Shiro really wants to know what he means by that. But their time together is up for the day before he can inquire.

After Keith has left and Shiro has thanked him vehemently for his work, he thinks about him for a little longer that afternoon, wondering what things he likes. Something warm kindles in his chest and he’s soothed by one thought: he’ll see him tomorrow.

  


*

  


Tomorrow comes and so does Keith, around the same time in the afternoon. Then comes the day after that and the day after that. They repeat their activities in a predictable pattern with a few alterations here and there: Keith takes care of Shiro, Keith helps Shiro, and sometimes Shiro manages to get Keith hang out past their appointed time. At some point, Keith starts to stay for dinner occasionally.

“Thanks for taking pity on this lonely, broken athlete,” Shiro jokes, trying to reconcile his feelings about Keith staying for dinner out of obligation versus out of genuine want through his second greatest skill: self-deprecation. 

“Don’t count yourself out, Shiro,” Keith says, wearing a serious expression. “I like spending time with you.”

Shiro can appreciate the sense of routine they’re developing that he’s been missing ever since he got benched. He lets Keith take him apart under his deft hands, gets a little better at stretching, and soon he’s feeling a resurgence of confidence about his body and about being alive while not playing rugby every day. Looking forward to seeing Keith takes up most of his time, and smothering the growing crush he has on him takes up most of his energy. 

“You heal fast,” Keith notes, holding Shiro’s foot in his lap the day after it’s out of the cast. He lightly flirts with pressure points, stretching the muscle ever so slightly. “You’ve done well to take resting so seriously.”

“I guess so,” Shiro shrugs, blushing with the praise. “It’s mostly thanks to you, though.”

It’s Keith’s turn to blush. “I don’t know about that,” he says. “Besides, we still have a ways to go.” 

Shiro’s time with Keith is important and special to him. At times it’s strained when it’s too painful to move his ankle around much, but for the most part he gets to know Keith a little more with each appointment. Keith has a dog he takes walking every morning, and he never liked mornings until he got the dog. His mom was recently promoted to a higher rank and transferred to a precinct up north, and it’s been driving him crazy that they don’t live closer. He likes hippos. He loves tiramisu.

“Oh my god,” he says one day while straddling the table and working on Shiro’s back. His hands stop all movement and Shiro worries about what’s gone wrong until Keith continues, “Your— your neighbors are—”

Shiro adjusts as best as he can, craning his neck and following Keith’s line of vision where his melodramatic neighbors are pressed against their back door in an urgent, graphic tryst. 

“Ah yes,” Shiro sighs. “The soap opera continues.”

“They’ve done this before?!” Keith asks, concerned.

“They’ve been arguing for weeks now, but _this_ is new. I’m glad to see they’ve made up for the moment,” Shiro jerks his shoulder in the approximation of a shrug, which he can’t do very well what with Keith being on top of him and also trying not to think about how Keith is on top of him.

“They can’t… do it somewhere else?” Keith mumbles, tearing his gaze away. “Not all of us are straight.”

Shiro chokes at the offhand comment and tries to cover it up with a cough. Good to know.

The way they talk to each other gets easier, too, although Shiro gets nervous that he’s crossing a line in regards to the flirting. Two and a half weeks after they start their arrangement, Keith comes to an appointment with bags under his eyes. Even though Shiro tries to cancel for the day so Keith can rest, Keith says it’s fine, chalking it up to not getting enough sleep. Even though Shiro can’t do anything about the sleep, they next day before their appointment he stops by a local bakery after hearing their tarts were infamous. Intending only to buy a fruit tart, he leaves with a beni-imo and chocolate one, too, and he gives all three to Keith.

“This is so much,” Keith says, and Shiro’s afraid he’s crossed a line.

“You just seemed like you needed some sugar,” Shiro replies.

Shiro readjusts to going out again and hanging with his teammates when he can. They lost at regionals so the season is over at this point, and everyone tells him how fun it was and how much they’d missed him. Shiro laughs and agrees and says he can’t wait for next season, but it rings hollow and he wonders if he’ll really be back.

He needs to explore his options.

  


*

  


“How are yoga classes going?” Shiro asks, several weeks later while Keith is massaging a tight spot on the sole of his foot. Keith had mentioned a while back that one of his newer attendees was also a yoga instructor at a local gym who was good at getting the whole room to laugh instead of listen to Keith. He recalls Keith’s frustrated tone and the way it translated into his massage when he said, _And like, that’s fine, laughter is just another way to relax, but he keeps stealing the show. I’d be more mad if he weren’t so good at it_.

“Classes are good,” Keith says. “Lance is still acting like he’s my second in command. You trying to get invited?”

“No,” Shiro lies, foot jerking a little with the accusation. “Not if you don’t want me there.”

“So pitiful,” Keith snickers, holding tight to his foot and pressing hard into the pressure points on Shiro’s arch and making him squirm. “Of course I want you there.” Keith’s tone grows fond and Shiro’s chest burns. _Of course I want you there_ rings like a bell in Shiro’s chest and he feels compelled to smother it.

“I just don’t want to make things weird for you since I’m a client. Plus, I probably wouldn’t fit in with the crowd,” Shiro adds somberly, purposefully trying to dampen his own chances and optimism.

“Why would you say that?” Keith asks, appalled; it shows when he stops moving his hands. He moves again when he feels he’s driven his point home. “You’ve never been, how can you know what the classes are like?”

“I guess all I can picture is a bunch of skinny white women in expensive tank tops with bleached blonde hair who are receptionists at orthodontia clinics. You know, people like me,” Shiro’s sarcasm is just cynical enough to not pass as a joke, and he regrets saying it immediately.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Keith says with a patient laugh. “And I think you’d be pleasantly surprised to see that our clientele is a little more diverse than the stereotype. Take me, for example. But you’d have a place there, Shiro. Anyone who likes to move their body, become stronger, or wants to realign themselves belongs there. You’re a great athlete and an even better person; you’re strong, talented, funny, and kind, and anyone who’s in the same room as you can see that.”

Shiro is quiet after that. Keith’s touch grows softer, gentler, and he can’t help but indulge in it, lean into it, bask in Keith’s unbridled praise. Shiro wants Keith so badly and he wants to see him outside of this arrangement. And despite the chance that it may be reciprocated, he’s too scared to step out of the comfort zone that his house has turned into. He feels like a turtle in its shell, safe and warm but afraid of the world outside.

“Okay,” Keith says, his raspy voice just above a whisper. “Let’s clean up and then we’ll stretch a bit, yeah?”

Sitting on their mats in an easy butterfly pose, Shiro can tell that he is wearing his deflated feelings on full display. Keith’s demeanor changes and he sits up a little straighter.

“Uh, Shiro,” Keith starts nonchalantly. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure,” Shiro feels himself perk up at the chance to be useful and redeem himself for his earlier comment. “Anything. What do you need?”

“I,” Keith starts. “Need someone to check my… form.”

“Sure,” Shiro agrees, even though he has no idea what it means. “How do I do that?”

“It’s easy,” Keith says, standing up. “I’m going to do some poses, and then I need you to make sure I have proper form.”

“I don’t think I’m qualified to—”

“It’s fine,” Keith cuts him off. An intensity swells in his eyes and he practically commands when he says, “Just watch me.”

First, he stretches his arms above his head, his shirt hiking up enough that Shiro can admire his defined abdominals. Then he folds forward all the way until he’s bent in half, hugging his legs with his arms. 

“Am I flat?” Keith asks, voice slightly muffled. Shiro can’t help that his gaze shifts to the round curves of Keith’s plump butt with the question, so he almost says no.

“Yeah,” his mouth goes dry. “Looks good.” Keith raises enough to nod in response and Shiro thinks his face is a little redder than usual.

“Ok, how about this one?” Keith adjusts his fold, this time spreading his legs into a wide enough stance to have the leverage to rest his elbows on the ground. Facing Shiro, he looks up at him and smiles.

“And this one?”

“Uhh,” Shiro replies, really, really unsure of what’s happening.

“Oh, sorry,” Keith amends. “You’ll probably be able to see better from the other side.”

It truly couldn’t be a worse situation because when Keith stands up, turns his back to Shiro, and then resumes the semi-split while leaning forward, Shiro has a front row seat to Keith’s butt where he can see every curve and dip through his tight leggings. Shiro’s brain short-circuits.

“Nice,” he says, giving a thumbs up even though Keith can’t even see him.

Then, Keith shimmies down into a full vertical split, sitting up and turning his head over his shoulder to look at Shiro. But Shiro can’t seem to tear his eyes away from how Keith’s butt is interacting with the angle and floor.

“Can you do the splits?” Keith asks innocently. 

“Absolutely not,” Shiro exhales. “Can you?” Stupid. Of course he can. He’s doing them right now.

“You mean both ways?” Keith fills in for him. Pushing up with his hands, he swings his legs around so that he’s facing Shiro straight-on and settles into a horizontal split. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Shiro echoes as he rakes his eyes over Keith’s form, wondering why on earth god would test him in such a way.

Across from him, Keith is silent and pensive, watching for something that Shiro is just not picking up on. He wishes Keith were easier to read. With slow and languid purpose, Keith pulls up into a plank and then flashes a smile at Shiro.

“Ok, this next one is what I’m most worried about. It’s for an advanced class, but I need to make sure my leg is straight,” Keith says. He eases into a wheel pose with straight legs, drops down onto his elbows, biceps flexing. Then he straightens one leg up in the air. The curve of his chest is incredible, the angles and bends guiding him like lines and light would in a painting.

“How does it look,” Keith asks, voice so thin with effort that it’s hardly a question. And Shiro is starting to think that Keith knows exactly how it looks.

“You’re like a contortionist,” Shiro says in disbelief.

“Is my leg straight?” Keith wiggles a little, and that when Shiro gets it. This is yoga flirting. _This_ is sexy yoga. This is not a pose that most people can do but Keith is doing it and he’s doing it for Shiro.

This is it.

Hopping to his feet with speed he hasn’t known since playing rugby religiously, Shiro walks the two feet it takes to get to Keith, straddles the mat and elects to gently run his fingers from Keith’s knee to his ankle, pulling his leg a little straighter (even though Keith doesn’t need the assistance whatsoever). Keith exhales with Shiro’s tug, breathing shallow while Shiro rubs little circles on Keith’s ankle.

“There,” Shiro says. “Totally straight.” Ha.

Then he looks down and sees the angle of Keith he’d never considered himself lucky enough to see. It is in that moment when Shiro accepts the Divine Deity of Yoga Pants into his life. And that’s when he sees that this is indeed reciprocated.

“Keith,” Shiro exhales heavily, his grip on Keith’s ankle tightening for a second. He wants to touch more than his leg, but not without permission.

Hearing the change in Shiro’s voice, Keith comes out of the pose carefully and lays on his stomach on the mat for a moment, thinking. Then he turns onto his back, tucking his shoulder blades under and looking up at Shiro, face flushed and red, a thin layer of sweat on his brow. From this angle, he looks small and predatory. Eyes locked, they share a spark, unspoken but loud and clear.

“Help me up?” He asks, raising a dainty hand like he’s not 170 pounds of tan, sinewy muscle, which just confirms Shiro's suspicion that Keith likes to be spoiled and taken care of, too.

Shiro grabs his hand and hauls him up so quickly and easily that Keith gets more air than expected, falling against Shiro’s chest for support.

“Thanks,” Keith whispers, looking at Shiro’s mouth.

“Keith, I—” Shiro starts before he’s cut off by Keith’s lips crushing against his own. Dizzy with the stars flashing in his eyes, Shiro presses back, cupping Keith’s neck, deepening and taking control of the kiss. Keith lets him, hiking a leg up around Shiro’s waist in question, and Shiro responds accordingly by hauling Keith up so that his legs wrap around him. Keith’s tongue traces the inseam of Shiro’s lips in a question and Shiro answers by opening up completely. He feels all the want and all the waiting fizz up like champagne bubbles in his chest. He lets it out with a giggle, pulling away from Keith’s mouth.

“Is this okay?” Keith pants, happy to break for air.

“Yes,” Shiro breathes, laughing into Keith’s neck. “How long?”

“What?”

“Have you been wanting to do that?”

“Kiss you?” Keith asks, his eyes looking everywhere but Shiro. “Uhhh,” which clearly means even longer than Shiro was expecting. He feels ridiculous for not having noticed.

“I would have kissed you weeks ago if I wasn’t so dumb.”

“You’re not dumb,” Keith says, stroking Shiro’s sharp jawline. “You’re patient and respectful and… completely oblivious to how attractive you are.”

“You mean how oblivious _you_ are? To how attractive _you_ are?” Shiro corrects, still trying to feel better about ignoring the signs.

“Stop,” Keith kisses him again. “This is about you.”

“I think it’s about us,” Shiro challenges, kissing back. “Takes two to tango.”

“Can your ankle take the weight?” Keith asks, concerned. “No point in dancing if you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I think I can handle it,” Shiro runs a hand over Keith’s back. “You’re little.”

“I’m not little,” Keith raises an eyebrow, carding his fingers through Shiro’s hair.

“You are compared to me.”

“And I bet you like that, don’t you?” Keith grins, wiggling his hips.

“Seems like the feeling’s mutual,” Shiro replies, grinding in tandem. He aims for where he feels Keith’s length against him, pulling his body toward his own in punctuation.

“Shiro,” Keith whines into the crook of Shiro’s neck. “ _Please_.”

“I’ve got you,” Shiro says, making a beeline for his bedroom.

The bedroom is cool, clean, and pragmatic. The blinds are drawn open so that the pale yellow sunshine can filter through since Shiro wakes up with the sun. He sets Keith down onto his California king and straddles him, leaning onto his elbows so he can kiss Keith into the bed while also keeping a slow rhythm with the friction.

“I have wanted to do this,” Shiro says between kissing Keith’s neck and rubbing circles into one of his wrists. “Since the day you told me you’ve been doing krav maga for six years.”

Keith laughs, tossing his head back and consequently giving Shiro more room to work with. “Why’s that?” 

“That was the day I knew you could kick my ass,” Shiro sighs affectionately, pushing up Keith’s shirt so he can mouth at the abs that have been mocking him all afternoon.

“Shiro,” Keith says, entangling his fingers in Shiro’s hair, eager to return the praise. “You’re the hottest guy I have ever seen. When I realized your arms were the size of my thighs— ”

“Just barely, though,” Shiro says, clapping a hand loudly against one of Keith’s muscular thighs. Keith’s yelp hitches just so, and Shiro can tell they’re going to have a good time together, to whatever it amounts to.

“Shiro,” Keith starts. “If you’re amenable,” he props himself up onto his elbows, reaches a palm down to cup Shiro’s face, pulling his heady gaze toward him. Keith’s dark hair frames his face, his eyelids heavy, and Shiro feels it in his groin when Keith licks his lips and says, “I would love it if you fucked me.”

Shiro responds by sitting back onto his knees. “Keith.” He wraps his hands around Keith’s hips, grasps the material of his pants, and roughly drags Keith up onto his lap. “ _Baby_ ,” he rolls his hips, cataloguing the sound that leaves Keith. “I would love to fuck you.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Keith sighs, trying to get more friction.

Months of sexual tension come to a head as Shiro and Keith collide in the warm afternoon light of Shiro’s room. They tear at each other’s shirts while trying to maintain the heated contiguity of their bodies.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes against his jaw, rubbing his thumb over Keith’s hipbone, hardly believing that this is real. “Your ass always looks incredible in these pants.”

“That’s why I’m wearing them, big guy,” Keith smirks, turning over. “Here, have a better look.”

The words and matching visual go straight to Shiro’s dick and he groans as Keith backs up against him, rolling and grinding. Shiro gently resists, pushing him away so he can grab two handfuls of Keith’s ass. He relishes in kneading the softness and the muscle, listening to Keith moan with the pressure as he rubs his entrance through the fabric.

“Off,” Keith says, twisting to face Shiro. “Take them off.”

“But you look so good,” Shiro pouts.

“You can ravage me through them another time, but I need these to stay clean,” Keith says, pushing them down. _Another time_ makes Shiro’s head feel light but he stays on the ground to help Keith out of the pants.

“These are nice,” Shiro says, thumbing the last thing Keith is wearing: a pair of thin cotton fluorescent orange briefs. “Little traffic cone ass.”

“ _Off_ ,” Keith says for the last time, laughing and batting at Shiro for the traffic cone comment. At last completely naked, cock flush against his abdomen, Keith watches Shiro process the scene, blushing under his stare.

“I’m—I’m gonna suck your dick,” Keith declares, trying to break the tension by sitting up and yanking at Shiro’s sweats.

“Not if I suck yours first,” and it’s a dumb line that Shiro pairs with pushing Keith back down, met only with a petty _hey!_ from Keith but Shiro knows what he wants. Keith is always doing all the work and they’re finally on a field where Shiro can make a difference. Pinning Keith’s hips down, he mouths at the junction of Keith’s thigh, appreciating the anticipatory noises from Keith. The sounds encourage him to press down harder, knowing Keith can slip out from under him at any time.

“Shiro, please,” Keith says, watching Shiro inch slowly toward his promise.

“We’ve got all afternoon, baby,” Shiro replies coolly, Keith whining when he calls him ‘baby’. “We can take it slow.”

“I told you I wanted you to fuck me,” Keith grits as Shiro finally makes good on his word, swirls his tongue and taking him all the way down. He swallows around him and pulls back, focuses on the head, teases over the slit. Keith squirms under his tongue and Shiro tries to hold him down a little longer. But Keith’s not having any of it. “Shiro, just—”

Shiro pulls away from him and fears that Keith might get up and leave if the look of pure shock on his face has anything to do with it. But Shiro ignores him and crawls over to reach into the drawer of his bedside table to grab lube and condoms. While there, he loses the sweatpants, too. When he rejoins Keith, he sees that he’s slowly pulling himself off, his face serene with pleasure. His eyes flutter open and he grins lazily at Shiro.

“Let me,” Shiro replaces Keith’s hand with his own and smiles into a kiss.

They take it slowly like Shiro promised, much to Keith’s frustration. Shiro runs his hands up and down Keith’s torso, rolling his nipples between his fingers with noisy results. He goes back to sucking Keith off, this time adding the stimulation of loosening Keith up with a finger.

“Oh wow,” Keith breathes. “That’s just one?” In response, Shiro lays his free hand out on Keith’s stomach spreading his fingers, pressing him down. He watches Keith’s eyes go wide at the sensation, in admiration of the size of Shiro’s hands, and he feels Keith’s cock jump in his mouth. Shiro pulls away so he can concentrate on opening Keith slowly.

“You ready for another?”

“ _Yes_.”

Shiro inserts another finger, working Keith wide until he’s down to the knuckles, twisting his fingers and coaxing a keening moan from Keith. 

“Oh yeah?” Shiro asks like they’re having a conversation.

“I can’t believe you’re actually mean,” Keith marvels as Shiro presses against Keith’s sweet spot again.

“Am I?” Shiro asks, half-serious despite his smile, nervous that he’s breaking unspoken rules. “Do you want me to stop?”

Keith tangles his fingers in Shiro’s hair in warning.

“Don’t you dare,” Keith hisses.

Shiro changes his angle so he can kiss Keith, adding a third finger, scissoring them. Keith holds on for dear life, controlling the kiss from under Shiro. Keith’s tongue is so soft against his own, his lips pliant and supple. They rock against each other in a slow, hard rhythm that Keith is desperately trying to quicken. To slow him down, Shiro lightly squeezes a hand around the base of Keith’s cock.

“Hold on,” he tells him.

“Shiro,” Keith commands when Shiro teases his pinky finger. “Now, please, _I’m ready_.”

Still in his briefs, Shiro releases all holds on Keith so he can scoot to the edge of the bed and remove them. Keith gasps and arches his back against the emptiness, quickly replacing it with his own fingers and working himself faster, wider. His legs fold up toward his chest and Shiro can at least appreciate the view.

“So impatient,” Shiro laughs, crawling back over and repositioning himself between Keith’s legs. “I’m right here.”

“Too slow,” Keith pushes him back with a foot to Shiro’s chest and continues to finger himself, using his other hand to pinch a nipple. 

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro admonishes, amazed that they’re playing this game. He wants to fuck Keith for the rest of the day and foreseeable future. Forget rugby. 

Keith drops his foot from Shiro’s chest to his inner thigh, twisting it toward his groin. Shiro heaves forward with the friction, groaning with the contact. “You are a menace,” he laughs. 

“Shiro, please, _please_ ,” Keith begs, looking wrecked. He pulls his foot away and his legs fall open. Shiro can’t deny him any longer.

Positioning himself in between Keith’s legs, he grabs both of Keith’s ankles and thinks to push them down toward Keith’s head to see how far they’ll go. Unsurprisingly, especially after his earlier performance, they go all the way down until the only thing stopping them is the bed. Keith looks at Shiro with eyes that say _what were you expecting?_ and a soft blush that makes him look shy. 

“Wow,” Shiro exhales. Shiro throws one of Keith’s legs over his shoulder so that he can steady himself with one hand, lining up with Keith’s entrance. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, eyes locked with Keith’s determined gaze. Shiro slowly pushes in and Keith’s breath grows labored with the pressure. Keith is so tight around him that he can’t help but sigh. Both of them tremble with the implications, with the anticipation of having waited for this thing they both wanted but wouldn’t say.

Shiro bottoms out and Keith shivers, asks Shiro to wait a moment until he’s ready. Shiro left hand is still pinning Keith’s leg down, and he uses his right hand to brush the hair from Keith’s face, traces his lips. Holding on to Shiro’s prosthetic arm, Keith guides Shiro’s index finger toward his mouth, darting his tongue out. He sucks the finger down to the knuckle and closes his eyes, starting to gently rock against Shiro, which Shiro understands as a sign that he’s good to move.

At an agonizing pace, Shiro pulls back and pushes in like a lazy wave. Keith sucks harder, taking another finger in his mouth, in tandem with Shiro’s motions. The sensation is so different through the prosthetic and it has Shiro’s blood pounding in his ears. He presses down on Keith’s tongue and speeds up, pushing Keith’s leg down further so that he can get a little more lift off the bed as he aims for Keith’s sweet spot, hitting it hard with their new angle. Keith yells around Shiro’s fingers, pulling them from his mouth and throwing his head to the side as Shiro continuously pounds into him.

“ _Harder_ ,” Keith pleads and Shiro listens. Keith looks incredible beneath him, pulsing and sweating. Unable to help it, Shiro leans down and kisses Keith between breaths, admiring how Keith surges with the kiss, his back arching, eyes screwing shut. “Shiro I’m—”

Keith comes, clenching and sending Shiro over the edge as well. The euphoria of the high makes his vision go momentarily white and Shiro thinks he can hear himself saying Keith’s name over and over. They collapse into each other, trying to catch their breath.

Shiro rolls onto his back, turns his neck so he can look at Keith, who is panting just as hard. Shiro brushes Keith’s hair out of his face and offers a smile which Keith tries and ultimately fails to return, still too out of it.

To amend this, Shiro hops to his feet and goes to the bathroom to clean up, tossing the condom and getting a wet towel. Back in bed, he wipes Keith’s forehead with it, cleans up the mess on his stomach.

“Shiro,” Keith says while Shiro tosses the washcloth away. Keith lifts his arms up and Shiro pulls him close enough that their noses are touching. “That was good,” Keith says, voice low. “Really good.” Shiro kisses him softly as if they have all the time in the world. “I haven’t— it’s been a while since…”

“Me too,” Shiro responds, loving how Keith is wrapping his arms around Shiro’s neck, loving how small Keith’s slim waist feels under his hands. “I’ve never known anyone as good as you,” he whispers, this honesty too fragile to be expressed any louder.

“I think we should do this again,” Keith tells him. “Several times.”

“Today?” Shiro asks, teasing despite knowing what Keith means. This is what Shiro’s wanted for so long and he can’t let it happen so easily. It’s too good to be true.

“Tomorrow, too, I think,” Keith says, going red and nuzzling Shiro’s chest. “God you are so hot,” he murmurs between Shiro’s pectorals.

“I was thinking the same thing about you,” Shiro says, giving Keith’s trim waist a squeeze. “I’m down for tomorrow,” Shiro grins, feeling warm inside, warm outside, warm with the sunlight, enjoying the warmth of Keith in his arms. “And the day after that, too, if it’s okay.” Keith looks up at him again with big, wet eyes and Shiro kisses him and tries to communicate that Keith deserves the world and he hopes he can give it to him, considering how Keith has given him so much. Shiro thinks about dopamine.

They lay in each other’s arms after that, drowsily kissing and enjoying the peaceful quiet. What gets them going again is when Shiro feels Keith get hard against his leg despite their tame kisses. With a laugh, Shiro asks him what he’s thinking about that has him so eager for round two.

“Sorry,” Keith laughs, grinding a little and pecking Shiro on the lips. “I was just thinking about all the times I wanted to sex up your massages.”

“Keith!” Shiro feels his face heat up, the straightforwardness catching him off guard.

“Maybe we can try it out at your next appointment,” Keith grins, his fingers teasing the cleft of Shiro’s ass. “If you’re open to it.”

“Absolutely,” Shiro sighs, melting into Keith’s touch.

  
  
  
  
  
*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith gets a new client.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all!!! wowza !!!!!! thank you so much for the kind and warm response to this fic hahaha. i wrote a little more from Keith's POV!! enjoy !!
> 
> ALSO I made a skin for this fic for the text messaging so please make sure you are _not_ hiding the creator's style !! If things are confusing, please let me know !!

Keith has been working at the Marmora Clinic for Physical Therapy and Rehabilitation for about three years now. It’s a steady paying job with a generally kind clientele, and he gets to work with his uncles on top of it. With careful timekeeping, he balances work at the clinic with his several hobbies and disciplines.

His schedule looks like this: on Mondays, he does krav maga. On Tuesdays, he does capoeira. On Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, he teaches yoga. On Saturday, he does a little bit of everything and usually ends the night at Atlas. On Sunday, he rests.

And then it starts all over again.

Today is a Saturday, and the whole week has been leading up to it. Because of renovations at the capoeira studio he’d volunteered to help with, his evenings are spent sanding wood, installing sheetrock, and painting walls. What’s more, the capoeira studio he frequents is notoriously rigid, even after hours. He’s carried himself a little straighter than usual this week and he can feel it in his shoulders and lower back by Thursday. So he had set sight on the weekend, thinking about all the ways he planned to loosen up.

Now that he’s made it to Saturday, Keith takes the morning slowly, letting the sun warm his room before he gets up to make breakfast. He shrugs into a loose t-shirt and a pair of colorful leggings, stretching awake. Letting the dog out to run, he takes a seat on the patio. Bowl of cereal in one hand, he checks his phone with the other and sees that Pidge had texted him earlier. He hammers out his reply and Pidge texts back almost instantaneously.

hey sorry to text early on a saturday but wanted to see if u were still down for tonight !!  
  
come hail or high water  
  
hahah siiiiiiick alright I will see u there  
also I wanted to check in and see if it’s ok if I bring a friend?? She’s never been to Atlas  
of course ! do I know her?  
I don’t think so… she’s a doctor at the same hospital as dad  
so unless you’ve had surgery lately???  
no and let’s keep it that way  
agreed. But yeah i think you’ll like her !!  
looking forward to it  
Ok !! talk to you later my guy !!  
  


After breakfast, Keith FaceTimes his mom then cleans the house. He spends the afternoon running errands that he’s been putting off for too long. After dinner, he carefully chooses an outfit for the evening, making sure to pick something with a proportionate amount of fabric to lace. Last time he’d gone overboard and accidentally tore the whole thing up on a subway gate. _Live and learn_ , he thinks, stepping into the bodysuit.

He checks his full length mirror and likes what he sees. Burgundy suits him.

Keith pulls on his day clothes over the body suit, tosses a bottle of spray-on glitter into his bag, and he’s out the door.

Atlas has been Keith’s playground for a couple months now. Hunk had stumbled upon it when they celebrated Pidge’s birthday earlier in the year, and they’d enjoyed themselves so much that they found themselves coming back on a semi-regular basis.

It was a club, in a loose sense of the word: the rumor is that it used to be a Pizza Time Theatre, got shut down and abandoned for years, and then some wealthy hedonist purchased it for the hell of it and decked it out with poles, two stages, and advanced pyrotechnics (now removed). Management had shifted a couple times over the years and the club was always changing to be more accommodating to groups of all sizes and types.

Which is why Keith likes it so much. Atlas is, in many senses, for everyone. There are poles but no pole-dancers which means they’re free for patrons to try out and use. Private rooms are available, but they’re better suited for birthdays than midnight trysts. Atlas even has themed nights on the third Friday of every month, and last time the theme was “ _aliens but not necessarily the Ridley Scott movie._ ” The quirkiness and originality is largely unrivaled and Keith loves it.

Mostly, he loves dancing. He’s been drawn to the poles for a long time, and they provide a whole new aspect to his exercise regimen.

“Only Keith,” Hunk laughs into his drink, something bright blue with gold confetti in it. “Only Keith comes to the club to work out.”

“It’s pretty much the only thing I’m good at,” Keith shrugs, cradling his almost empty flute of pink champagne.

“That’s not true,” Pidge says. “You’re a great martial artist and an amazing physical therapist and that’s at least six talents altogether.”

“Thanks Pidge,” Keith says gratefully, hiding in the rest of his champagne. 

“A physical therapist, huh?” Pidge’s friend asks. Her name is Allura and Keith is pretty sure he’s seen her on the cover of a magazine (his mom’s subscriptions are still coming to his house). Plus, Pidge had gone on and on about Allura’s accolades so Keith wouldn’t put it past an editor to put someone as skilled and beautiful as Allura on _Women’s Health_. 

“You two are practically in the same field!” Hunk interjects.

“Well,” Keith shrinks back in his seat to get as far away from that statement as possible, a to-scale amount of the distance between him and a PhD. “I have all the medical training of maybe two of Allura’s fingers,” Keith jokes.

“Hey, your job requires a lot more people skills and patience than I’m willing to afford sometimes,” Allura says, raising her martini. “If anything, we’re at least on the same team.”

“Here, here,” Keith agrees, clinking his glass with hers. “For that comment, you get a free coupon for Keith’s PT Services, LLC. Any trouble spots I can help you out with?”

“Seriously?” Allura perks up, a little shy. “I actually had a six hour surgery yesterday and my neck is killing me…”

“Six hours,” Hunk whistles, shaking his head. “Keith, are you just gonna sit there? Help this lady out.”

“Show me,” Keith says, putting down his glass and going into work-mode. Allura’s face flushes and she pulls up her hair, pinning it in place. Keith follows her fingers as they point around her neck to where she’s ailing and he slots his own onto a pressure point and digs, unlocking the tight muscles and watching Allura’s shoulders drop in response. He presses more softly, working at and soothing the knots in her neck.

“Oh my god,” Allura moans. “You’re really good.”

“Keith has magic fingers,” Pidge assures her. “You’re in good hands.”

“He’s like a special ops agent at the clinic, too. He does house calls for folks who can’t make it in, right?” Hunk adds, and Keith adds a mental note to get something nice for his friends for handing out all this free marketing.

“House calls?” Allura moves to pull away and Keith lets her, retracting his hands. “Are you, by any chance, accepting new clients?” Allura’s blue eyes flash with hawk-like intensity.

“That good?” Keith laughs, flattered.

“Not for me. For one of my patients, actually.”

“Workaholics,” Pidge scoffs. “C’mon Hunk, let’s dance.”

“We’ll be over in a minute,” Keith promises, catching the glint of the poles in the distance. “I don’t have any openings right now, but maybe in a couple of weeks?”

“That should be fine,” Allura says. “Just let me know as soon as you can, if possible. I think you’d be a good match for him.”

“Thank you,” Keith says. Finding clients can be the hardest part about the job, so Keith appreciates a leg up where he can get one, especially if they can qualify as a “good match.” Excited to be helping each other out, they exchange phone numbers, concluding their business discussion with an exaggerated, affable handshake. Then get to the dance floor like their lives depend on it.

*

The week starts all over again.

Keith thanks the morning air with a deep inhale, appreciating the way it feels crisp in his lungs. The afternoons are always hot, so he soaks up the brief respite the cool early mornings offer him. He listens to the pitter-patter rhythm of his footfalls on the pavement. Beside him, his dog keeps up the pace.

“Almost there, buddy,” Keith huffs. “Last stretch.”

Keith pushes himself a little harder and finishes his morning 5k with a sprint to the end of the street where the clinic is. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he unlocks the door and sets his heart on a shower, but not before giving the dog a treat for running along. Keith lets him into the break room so he can cool off on his dog bed.

Inside, the clinic is abuzz with the morning calisthenics that Kolivan likes to do with the staff. Keith opens the door to their biggest multipurpose room and sure enough, the entirety of Marmora Clinic is moving along with a Kathy Smith aerobic exercise tape.

“Morning,” Keith greets, and everyone says good morning back with varying degrees of fatigue and shame. He makes to leave but Kolivan calls him before he can get out the door.

“Keith! C’mere,” he barks. Keith complies and stands an arm’s length away from Kolivan as he continues to follow the tape. “Well don’t just stand there, join in.”

Reluctantly, Keith participates, waving his arms and doing high knees as the video demands. “What is it?”

“I want you to think about taking on a new repeat client,” Kolivan says. “Mrs. Muir passed away yesterday.”

Keith’s heart sinks. He’d liked Mrs. Muir.

“Oh,” he says.

“I know,” Kolivan says, and his voice gets a little softer. “It’s a shame. We need to take on someone else as soon as we can, though. We’ve been under budget for the past two months.”

“Maybe you could stop buying all these 90’s workout tapes and curb the fees that way,” Regris suggests from the other side of the room, wearing an irritated frown and swinging into an sarcastic roundhouse kick.

“You know I pick these up from the thrift store,” Kolivan chides. “They’re hardly a drop in the bucket.”

“Anyway,” Keith presses, ultimately agreeing with Regris. “Who do you have in mind?” 

“No one in particular,” Kolivan shrugs into a double punch. “I put a few applications on your desk for you to look through, but just keep an eye open, yeah?”

“Will do,” Keith nods, using jumping jacks to leave the multipurpose room.

“How come Keith always gets to skip?” Keith hears Thace whine on his way out.

Keith makes a beeline for the showers before everyone else rolls in and thinks about what Kolivan said. He knew things had been tight, but the idea didn’t sit well with him. Keith needed this job. If the clinic went under, neither his assistant coach position in Krav Maga or yoga classes could cover a month’s expenses on their own.

He sighs and leans into the spray of the shower, washing his body and coming across a fading yellow bruise from shenanigans at Atlas.

Then he remembers Allura’s offer. Before the champagne had gotten to him and before he had gotten to the poles.

Out of the shower, he scrolls through his phone and sends her a determined text.

*

Keith’s first day with the client gets scheduled for later that week. Allura answers with such fervor and conviction that Keith can’t help but feel a little excited, too. Kolivan is pleased as well; the client has excellent insurance and Allura has recommended daily visits. Much to the chagrin of Regris and Thace, Kolivan claps Keith on the back and lets him skip cleaning the clinic that Monday afternoon.

At home, Keith cooks dinner and snuggles up with his dog. He thinks about the words Allura had used when describing the client. _Good match_. Whatever it means, he supposes it’s better than working with someone who’s difficult.

He doesn’t dwell on it for long. Instead, he memorizes Allura’s information about the client. A rugby player with a broken ankle. His name is Shiro.

 

*

Keith pulls up to the client’s house with all the anxiety that comes before having an appointment with a stranger. But then he relaxes, trusting Allura and trusting himself to do a good job. Loading out the massage table from the car, he swings his backpack over his shoulder and makes for the front door.

With a prompt doorbell ring and knock, he waits, tapping his foot to a tune in his head.

The door starts to open. 

“Hi,” Keith says, putting on a smile. “I’m Keith.”

Keith is glad that he got his self-introduction out because his breathing momentarily stops after that. It is also the moment when Keith knows his polite smile curdles into something of nervous disbelief; this guy is so hot it’s frankly unbelievable. Chiseled jaw and high cheekbones aside, the man is absolutely massive in the chest, leg, and arm department. Just when Shiro turns around to lead Keith inside, Keith gets confirmation that the butt department is doing just as well.

“Let me get that for you,” Shiro offers, gesturing to the massage table. Keith, miraculously, holds back a fond snort at Shiro’s thoughtless comment; it suggests that his chivalry is automatic.

“It’s fine,” he manages, smiling in spite of himself. “In any case, aren’t you injured?”

“Oh yeah,” Shiro frowns, visibly upset with himself for forgetting. _Great, he’s adorable, too_ , Keith thinks. 

Shiro’s house is spacious and well-lit, windows everywhere. It’s surprisingly tasteful, a thought that rings even more true when Shiro tells Keith that he lives alone.

Shiro appears understandably anxious and Keith tries to talk him through the nerves. He opens up about his injury and Keith tries to put himself in Shiro’s shoes, tries to imagine all the pain that he’s experienced. Keith explains his intended approach to the appointments, confirming if Shiro will be alright with the same parameters. Laying down on the table makes Shiro vulnerable, and Keith wants to respect that.

“Are you comfortable taking off your shirt for this? You can keep your pants,” Keith says. The skin to skin will be good for Shiro, but since this is a first appointment he doesn’t want to make him feel like he’s overstepping any boundaries.

“No problem,” Shiro says and, with a zeal that Keith can respect considering how many hours had gone in to sculpting that chest, removes his shirt and gives Keith a reason to believe in a higher power.

“Thank you,” Keith tells Shiro’s abs, although he tries very hard to say it to his face. He’s only human.

“I can lose the pants, too,” Shiro offers, and Keith feels his heartbeat speed up and his face go warm. Jocks are a gift.

“Good to know,” Keith clears his throat, attempting to cool off from the weight of Shiro’s physique. He even has a badass prosthetic, and who is this guy? Some sort of war hero? Either way, he’s sweet and completely genuine. 

With Shiro on the table, Keith takes a deep breath and prepares himself for any nonverbal or physical response cues that could indicate Shiro’s discomfort.

The massage goes off without a hitch. Shiro is responsive but not noisy, with no disagreeable quirks. He’s built like a brick shithouse and he has all of the knots and emotional weight that goes with that. Keith knows it will take more than a few sessions to work that all out, but when he presses his hands around Shiro’s gluteal muscles, he’s confident that he won’t mind the road ahead. Shiro seems to like the butt massage, too.

But Keith also tries not to think about Shiro that way. It would be inappropriate as his PT to objectify him in such a way. Nonetheless, Keith can’t help but think that Shiro will make this part of the job very easy.

For a moment, he even considers how it could be fun for Shiro to come to a yoga class later.

Moving on to his arms and wary of it, Keith checks in with Shiro about his prosthetic. He doesn’t want to skip it by any means, but he also wants to respect Shiro’s boundaries. When Shiro gives him the green light, he approaches the hand like it were something special; because it is. It’s an incredible piece of technology that probably improved Shiro’s life in a lot of ways. But not without strife, which is why Keith stops touching at first sign of discomfort from Shiro. 

Shiro sighs and Keith touches him softly, presses lightly, tries to nonverbally communicate that it’s going to be alright. 

They finish the massage and Shiro is putty in Keith’s hands. He quietly leaves him on the table, washes his hands in the kitchen.

“Take your time getting up,” he says. Shiro listens well, giving Keith enough time to get his hands clean and also prepare a glass of water for him.

“Was that alright?”

“More than alright,” Shiro half smiles, half yawns.

“Do you want to skip stretching? I think I wiped you out.” A smile pushes at Keith’s lips, already endeared to this gentle person.

“No it’s okay I’m fine let’s do it,” Shiro is adamant about participating in stretching, which is great until he completely forgets that his left ankle is broken and tries to stand on his own. Keith watches the pain flash across Shiro’s face, and before he can think twice, he steps up and catches Shiro so that he doesn’t fall and worsen his injury.

“Are you alright?” Keith asks.

“I—I’m sorry,” Shiro apologizes, his face pink. Keith thinks it’s a nice color on him, then remembers that he’s got his arms full of more than six feet of shirtless, athletic prime beef. Shiro remembers too, breaking the incredulous silence with a reverent, “ _You’re strong_.”

They’re both blushing now and Keith feels ridiculous.

“H-here,” Keith stammers. “Let’s get set up on the mats.”

Another hour flies by as they stretch and talk. Keith gets to learn more about Shiro, which helps give him a fuller knowledge of him; it helps to close the gap between his now intimate knowledge of his body. 

He’s a rugby player who, now distant from the sense of community of a team, feels understandably lonely. His team is on their way to qualifiers without him, busy with intense practices and no energy leftover to check in on their injured teammate. It’s hard to watch Shiro struggle with realizing that his teammates are just teammates instead of friends, but it’s not Keith’s place to say so by any means.

Overall, Shiro is a kind and fierce person. His gentleness is so disarming that Keith feels comfortable talking about his parents. Then he mentions Atlas in passing, saying it’s how he likes to break away from his rigid schedule, alluding to a part of Keith’s life that is still so separate from Shiro. _But who knows_ , Keith thinks as he catches Shiro’s deep eyes, admiring the wrinkles in the corners and appreciating Shiro’s repeated thank you’s. 

In the car after the appointment, Keith allows himself a moment to freak out about the whole thing.

new client is (Police Cars Revolving Light ≊ Police Car’S Light)(Hot Pepper )  
  
wanna come over for dinner and tell me all about them????   
  


Keith heads over to Hunk's with his swift reply. He doesn't get a response from Pidge until much later. 

wait WHAT how did i miss this message   
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN KEITH YOU NEVER USE EMOJIS  
  


*

Keith ends up looking forward to his daily appointments with Shiro. They provide a different kind of constant to his rigid schedule, an interaction that requires his heart. He even stays for dinner sometimes; he can’t turn down a free meal with good company. 

During their appointments and after, Keith learns that Shiro was born on February 29th, so his real birthday only happens every four years. Shiro prefers tea to coffee. He even has two degrees an ivy league school, of all things.

“That is wild,” Keith tells Shiro, in awe when he finds out that Shiro has a bachelor’s in math and also physics. He didn’t doubt that Shiro was intelligent; he’d simply had no idea that he's _very_ intelligent. “You’re a real-life jock-nerd. I thought they were just a myth.” Shiro laughs at this comment, and Keith uses his relaxed posture to stretch his arm back even further, laughing with him.

Keith also learns that Shiro’s neighbors are struggling with their marriage in the worst way possible. But he uses the situation to his advantage to hint that he’s not straight to hopefully get the ball rolling with Shiro. Realistically, he knows it’d be better if he could wait until their arrangement is over, but Keith has never been a patient man.

*

Two and a half weeks later, Keith gets bad news.

It’s the middle of the night when the whiny trill of his phone wakes him up. His eyes are hardly able to open until he sees that it’s a video call from his mom. The two of them had an agreement to call each other in cases of emergency no matter the hour, and a video call did not bode well at two a.m. The dog notices too, snuggling closer to Keith.

“Mom?” He answers, trying not to panic during the impossibly long five seconds it takes for the picture to load.

“Keith,” comes a voice, but it’s not his mom’s, which only makes his breath more shallow. “This is Ulaz, Krolia’s partner at the precinct.” Keith can hear his heart beat in his ears and he thinks he might pass out. Behind Ulaz is the all too familiar backdrop of a hospital waiting room. Ulaz registers the panic in Keith’s eyes and keeps talking. “Your mother got a concussion on the job today but she is stabilized now. She wanted to see you but kept forgetting that you’re downstate.”

Keith claps a hand over his mouth so nothing compromising can get out. He nods, trying to wrap his head around the fact his mom is injured, in pain, and experiencing temporary amnesia.

“Keith,” Ulaz says again, and Keith notes that his voice is very steady and calm; Keith holds on to the sound like it’s a life raft. “She’s okay. Do you want to talk with her?”

Keith nods again and watches the video shake as Ulaz walks, the lights fading in the dark hallways, then brightening when he enters one of the rooms. He listens to Ulaz ask how his mom is feeling and if she wants to see him. She sounds exasperated and demands the phone with a familiar commanding cadence.

“Keith,” his mom says aggressively, clearly exhausted and on her last nerve. A white head-bandage invokes a sharp pain in Keith’s chest.

“Mom,” Keith croaks. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Keith,” she assures him. “I’m a lot less fuzzy than I was earlier. Don’t worry okay? Keith?”

Keith realizes he’s crying after his mom’s tone goes soft. Wiping away the tears, he steadies his breathing. 

“Sorry, I’m so glad you’re alright. Thank you for calling me. What happened?”

“Was overpowered by a couple of people who thought they could rob a gas station,” she sighs. “I didn’t see the third one coming. Knocked me down onto the hood of a car.”

“Oh how the tables had turned,” Ulaz adds from off-camera. If it had been anyone else saying it, Keith wouldn’t have appreciated the remark. But Ulaz had called him and kept calm and wasn’t a complete meathead. That and his mom laughs at the comment, tacking on a fiesty, “Shut up, Ulaz.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Keith repeats. “Do you need me to come up there? Or do you need come back down here to the house? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“It’s fine, Keith, don’t worry about it, alright? How’s work?” His mom deflects, but Keith can’t blame her. He would do the same.

“Good,” Keith exhales, coming back to himself.

“Any funny client stories?” his mom looks hopeful.

“Well,” Keith shrugs. “I did get a new client since we last talked.”

“Oh?”

Keith’s face goes warm, thinking about Shiro and deciding if he’s going to tell his mom about him.

His face gives too much away though; his mom sees right through his hesitation and gives an exaggerated gasp.

“Keith! Do you have a celebrity client?”

“Not quite,” he laughs.

They talk until dawn breaks and Keith remembers he has three yoga classes that morning before his appointment with Shiro. He feels guilty for not letting his mom rest, but Ulaz assures him that the doctors were going to keep her awake regardless.

“I’m sorry to keep _you_ awake, sweetheart,” she says. “I hope you won’t be too tired for work today.”

“I’ll be fine,” Keith promises. “I’m just so relieved you’re okay.”

They agree to talk later and Keith reluctantly gets up, makes his bed, and showers. He lets the dog out and begs forgiveness that they’re skipping their morning run together, but the dog seems to understand. 

Keith’s morning drags by as the fatigue sets in deeper and deeper. The adrenaline leaves his body sometime around nine o’clock during his second yoga class and he thinks he might fall asleep during extended child’s pose.

Then comes his appointment with Shiro. Although he usually looks forward to seeing him, today his energy levels are so depleted that he can hardly bring himself to wear the mask. 

Shiro greets him at the door as usual and then sees right through Keith. “Keith? Are you alright?”

“Hey Shiro,” Keith says, gently pushing his way inside, massage table in hand. Shiro, now out of his cast, feels compelled to take the table from Keith and Keith lets him. “I’m fine, I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Shiro’s mouth puckers at this and Keith isn’t sure he could decipher its meaning even if he was fully rested.

“You should rest,” Shiro looks determined. “We can cancel our appointment today, it’s no problem.”

Both of them consider cancelling for a solid ten seconds, but Keith notices the loud disappointment between both of them if that were to happen. 

“Thank you, Shiro,” Keith says. “But I promise I’ll be alright. Let’s have you get ready, okay?”

The next day, Keith comes to the appointment fully rested and set on doing a better job than he did yesterday. Confident that he does so, he stretches Shiro with even more fervor than usual. Afterward, Shiro ushers him into the kitchen and sits him at the counter. He presents him with a large and shiny pale-gold box with a label bearing the logo of a nearby bakery that Keith sees on his way to Shiro’s place. There are three delicious looking tarts inside and Keith feels his heart jolt with a skipped beat. 

“This is so much,” he says, in awe of Shiro’s thoughtfulness. He’s going to call his mom about this.

“You just seemed like you needed some sugar,” Shiro shrugs. The sheepish slant of his shoulders doesn’t suit him but Keith likes it anyway.

“Thank you,” Keith says, taking a bite out of the beni-imo tart, delighted to find that there’s cream on the inside. “I did.”

This seals the deal for Keith. He’s going to have this man if it’s the last thing he does.

*

Several weeks later, after he and Shiro finally stop dancing around each other, Keith is proud to say that he gets exactly what he wants. Sure, it takes time and some advanced yoga poses, but Shiro is a patient, generous lover, with a daring side too which Keith can appreciate. Keith likes how he feels small under Shiro’s hands, how his legs feel strong wrapped around Shiro’s waist. 

“Is this okay?” Keith pants, happy to break for air, in disbelief that he was actually kissing Shiro.

“Yes,” Shiro breathes, laughing into Keith’s neck. “How long?” Shiro asks and Keith feels his whole body tense up. 

“What?”

“Have you been wanting to do that?” Has Keith been _that_ transparent?

“Kiss you?” Keith asks, trying to look anywhere but Shiro. “Uhhh,” he tries, which he believes is a good way of saying ‘longer than has been appropriate for our client/PT relationship.’ But Shiro only looks upset with himself.

“I would have kissed you weeks ago if I wasn’t so dumb.”

“You’re not dumb,” Keith says, stroking Shiro’s sharp jawline. “You’re patient and respectful and… completely oblivious to how attractive you are.” Shiro’s mouth opens at this like Keith has told a giant lie. 

Their banter still echoes in his ears as does the rest of the afternoon, down to when they were finally exhausted from their activities. They’d gone on until Shiro’s room grew dim with the setting sun.

“Oh no,” Keith gasps into the back of Shiro’s shoulder while they’re spooning.

“What’s wrong?” Shiro stirs a little, nervous.

“I missed capoeira,” Keith says, a little in awe of himself. Before now, he had only ever missed a single meeting when he had been horribly sick with the flu. But this time he hadn’t even remembered to call the studio to let them know.

Shiro laughs at this, turning over completely so he can hug Keith like an octopus. “I’m sorry. I know it’s important to you,” he says like it’s his fault alone.

“It’s fine,” Keith laughs. “I wouldn’t have wanted to spend the day any other way,” and he demonstrates this by pressing closer to Shiro, catching his lips with his own.

Keith goes home that night to freshen up and sleep in his own bed since he has work the next day. He reflects on everything that happened by recounting the PG parts to his dog. In his shower, he thinks about Shiro’s eyes and mouth, his broad shoulders and back. He traces the fading marks Shiro had left on him. Then he falls asleep with the blissful thought that he and Shiro have agreed to do it all again.

*

Two days later, Keith teaches his yoga classes with renewed, re-invigorated zeal. It had been a while since he’d gotten so thoroughly dicked and he feels it during his stretches before class. Shiro had been so careful that all Keith is left with is a sensual, dull ache in his back that fades after the first day. He thinks about what it would be like to feel it again, and he makes sure to text Shiro and tell him as much, including a picture of him stretching reflected in the studio mirror with particular focus on his backside. Shiro’s response is a garbled series of heart emoji, and Keith’s heart feels like it’s getting squeezed in Shiro’s big arms.

Patrons file in and greet Keith, groggy but warm, tearing him away from his thoughts. He’s pleased to see Pidge and Hunk, who occasionally like to hit up his earliest class before they go to work. Today, Lance tags along too. 

Hunk and Lance have been friends for a long time, and despite both being part of the local yoga circuit, Lance usually runs in different circles compared to Keith. Until recently. Now, for whatever reason, he’s making an effort to come to Keith’s classes on a regular basis and also play the role of an assistant teacher during the lessons. While it was annoying at first, it’s ultimately useful to have such a personality in the room. But Keith refuses to say so to Lance’s face.

“Nice class, teach!” Lance says at the end, employing a pair of enthusiastic finger guns. “Gotta love that _baddha konasana_!” On his way out he drops five dollars in the tip jar. “See you next time! Meet you in the car, Hunk!” Keith watches him go with growing suspicion; he needs to figure out just what the hell is going on with Lance.

“Hunk,” Keith says, grabbing Hunk by the forearm before he can leave. “Be honest. Is Lance hitting on me?”

“No,” Hunk laughs. “Definitely not. But it’s hilarious that he’s been misconstrued that way. Thank you for the ammo.”

“What does he want then?”

“Uhh,” Hunk shrugs, pretending that he doesn’t know. Hunk is a terrible liar. 

“C’mon, Hunk, you can tell me,” Keith urges, begging for clarification.

“Okay, okay,” Hunk says, quietly pulling Keith toward the break room for discretion, then lets everything out in one breath. “He’s kind of in a tight situation right now at his studio. It’s because of the—there’s a problem with—a conflict with his manager. He’s trying to butter you up cause he wants to apply here.”

“He wants to work here?” Keith asks. Hunk nods. “And he’s… is he okay?” Hunk tilts his head, unable to answer the question on Lance’s behalf but the wobble of his mouth reads _no_. Keith taps his foot. He thinks about what his mom would do, what Kolivan would do.

Keith steps behind the front desk and opens up the cabinets, rifling through their last month’s earning reports. There are buoyant results. If Lance is in a tight spot, Keith wants to make it work. He digs Lance’s five dollars out of the tip jar and paper clips them to a printed copy of his own schedule, handing it to a bewildered Hunk. 

“Give this to him and tell him he starts next week. He’ll shadow me and then we’ll give him free reign when he’s ready.”

“Keith,” Hunk says, his voice thin, eyes glistening. “Thank you.”

“Let me know sooner next time, okay?” Keith presses, clapping Hunk on the shoulder. “We gotta help each other out. That’s what friends are for.” 

Hunk pulls Keith into a bear-hug so tight it squeezes all the air out of Keith’s lungs. They say goodbye and Keith can’t help but watch Hunk as he gets in the car and hands the paper to Lance. When Lance crumples with emotion, looking somewhere between completely defeated and infinitely hopeful, Keith pulls himself away from the door and gets ready for his next class.

*

Later that afternoon, Keith makes his way to Shiro’s for their appointment. Shiro swings opens the door, takes the table, and holds Keith’s chin still with his other hand as he greets him with a slow, sweet kiss.

“Wow,” Keith sighs. “We really should’ve started doing this a lot earlier.”

“Agreed. Come on in. Do you want anything to drink?” Keith takes the table back and sets it up while Shiro pours him a glass of peach lemonade. Standing at the counter, Keith watches Shiro walk, notices the way he is steadily putting more weight on his left ankle, how his gait has become much more confident than it was even just a week earlier. He tells him as much and Shiro preens with the compliment.

“Maybe I’m just excited to see you,” Shiro says, melting Keith’s heart.

“Back at you,” Keith confesses. Shiro stands in front of him and Keith wraps his arms around Shiro’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss that Keith melts into. “You’re all I’ve been thinking about.”

Before their kissing can get too impassioned, Keith pulls away and guides Shiro to the table. “Let’s save it for later,” he tries. He still needs to work and serve Shiro as best as he can; they’re on appointment time.

As usual, Keith starts with Shiro’s back, spending a long time on his shoulders and lower back, paying extra attention to his gluteal muscles and his hands. He deeply massages his feet and calves. 

“How has your day been so far?” Keith asks. 

“Fine,” Shiro says. “I tried to go out for lunch with some of my teammates, but it ended up being kind of a bummer.”

“Why?” Keith asks, feeling defensive but trying to be an objective listener. “What happened?”

“It… I guess it didn’t feel like I belonged there. They sort of didn’t understand what I was going through, and then they had gone and ordered without me and—I’m sorry for complaining. It’s not a big deal. It was just different than what I’m used to.”

Shiro’s words disagree with his body and Keith feels his muscles tighten a little with the comments. To remedy this, he switches to the head of the table and asks Shiro to flip onto his back so he can drag his fingers over Shiro’s scalp. He applies pressure to where the parietal bone meets the occipital plate, utilizing gravity to press into Shiro’s neck muscles. 

“You’re so good at that,” Shiro groans, putty in Keith’s hands.

“You make it easy,” Keith replies. “I’m sorry your teammates weren’t cool. That’s really shitty.” Shiro sighs into Keith’s touch and thanks him for listening. “I think a big difference is how much you’ve changed in the past few months. By the sound of it, it seems like they haven’t changed much at all.”

Shiro hums thoughtfully at this but doesn’t say anything else. Keith wants to pamper him, though. He wants to show him how much he’s worth.

At the end of the massage, Shiro catches Keith’s hand before he can pull away, kissing his wrist, thanking him again. He looks up at him with soft eyes that Keith can’t pull his gaze away from. Leaning down, he gives him an upside-down kiss that Shiro leans into. When they pull away, Shiro sits up onto the edge of the table, guiding Keith to stand between his legs so he can hug him. “How was your day?”

“Good,” Keith says, his voice quiet with how close he is to Shiro. “I gave Lance a job.”

“Really?” Shiro asks, pulling away so he can look at Keith’s face in search of a joke. When he doesn’t find one, his surprise is punctuated by an arched eyebrow. “Change of heart?”

“Yeah,” Keith shrugs. “Hunk told me he was having trouble at his other studio. It only felt right. He’d do it for me.” Shiro’s smile is warm and patient, and his eyes have a soft, unreadable look to them.

“That was very kind of you,” he tells Keith. Resisting the praise, Keith tries to escape from where Shiro is holding his hands.

“C’mon, let’s do some stretches.”

“Don’t wanna,” Shiro replies, holding tighter to Keith’s hands and yanking him closer. Keith recalls that Shiro is completely naked and totally unabashed about it. Weak to his charm, Keith lets Shiro guide him into a deep kiss that he lets Keith takes control of as it grows heated.

“What would you rather do, then?” Keith asks, trying to be fair and cursing himself for a lack of self-control (as much discipline as all of his martial arts and training has provided him with, he is ultimately powerless in Shiro’s arms). 

Shiro pauses in consideration now that Keith has given him the green light to misbehave. With a coquettish tilt of his head, Keith watches a thought wash over Shiro like a powerful wave and wishes he could read his mind so he could give him exactly what he wants.

“I want you to fuck me over this table,” Shiro whispers and Keith feels it roll through his gut. “If that’s okay. Can we do that? Is that an option?” He adds, more practical than sexy, but his concern is cute. “I don’t wanna ruin your table.”

“It’s an option now,” Keith says before he can stop himself, tightening his grip on the wide ambit of Shiro’s biceps before he releases them to grab some bottles and towels from his pack. He doesn’t really want to ruin the table, but sometimes sacrifices must be made. The least he can do is conduct some preventative maintenance. Shiro chases Keith with his eyes, a dark blush spreading across his face.

“Lie down on your back and scoot your body to the edge of the table,” Keith commands. Shiro obeys and lets Keith strategically place extra towels under him. Keith marvels at the size of Shiro’s thighs, stepping forward so he’s between them again, melodramatically imagining how nice it would be to die there.

“Hey there, big guy,” Keith says, leaning forward so that his and Shiro’s chests are flush with each other, although he only comes up to Shiro’s defined pectorals at this angle and table height. He gives them a friendly squeeze.

“Hey,” Shiro says, a quiver in his voice. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got planned for me?”

“First,” Keith chews on the word. “I’m going to open you up with a prostate massage. Then when you’re dripping and begging for it, I’m going to bend you over the table and fuck you. Deal?”

Shiro’s eyes dilate and his breathing quickens, and soon Keith feels his own arousal deep in his navel.

“Alright?” Keith checks in. He opens up a bottle of lube and pours a generous amount onto his hand, warming it between his fingers.

“Yes, absolutely,” Shiro grins, breath hitching as Keith presses a finger over his entrance, massaging his perineum with the other fingers. “So is this what you meant when you wanted to ‘sex up our massages’?”

“Something like that,” Keith grins, still circling and pressing around Shiro’s hole, watching his eyes flutter shut as he relaxes himself. “I’ve fantasized about how many orgasms I can milk out of you like this.”

“Keith,” Shiro whines, pushing back against Keith’s finger. “C’mon.”

“Don’t like being teased?” Keith asks, smirking and reveling in a chance to get his revenge. “That’s funny. I take it you don’t remember relentlessly picking on me the other day then?”

Shiro gives him a dirty look with no heat behind it; it’s really more of a petulant pout than anything else. If anything, he knows Keith isn’t wrong. This realization is written all over his face and at least now he knows that his actions have consequences.

“ _Please_ ,” Shiro tries, and Keith can appreciate manners. He slides one finger in, down to the second knuckle, gently probing the area. Then he pushes all the way in, curling his finger forward to find Shiro’s spot, and while it takes a little prodding, Shiro doesn’t seem to mind the attention. When Keith makes contact, Shiro gasps and hides his face in his arm.

“Don’t be shy,” Keith laughs, breathless at Shiro’s reaction. Adding another finger, he continues the motion, rubbing up and down, massaging harder every now and again. He falls into a good rhythm and Shiro starts to rock his hips forward in time.

“K-Keith,” Shiro breathes. His cock is fully erect against his stomach, bouncing with their movements. He tries to reach a hand down but Keith bats him away with his free hand.

“No touching,” he says. “You won’t need it.”

At this, a whine escapes Shiro and Keith commits the noise to memory. 

Keith works Shiro with efficient strokes, pressing against his wall and holding, especially as his breath comes in short bursts and his cock starts leaking.

“Keith, I’m—” Shiro grits his teeth, throws his head back, groans and comes dry. He gasps for air but Keith doesn’t let up his fingers or pressure, continuing to push and massage.”Holy shit,” Shiro breathes, his back arching as he absorbs what just happened.

“Keep going, Shiro,” Keith pants, feeling his dick twitch in his leggings as he listens to Shiro’s breathy moans, gratified by his full-body reaction. He watches Shiro squirm, feels him rock toward Keith’s fingers even more. Shortly after, Shiro comes again, still dry and louder than the first time.

“Fuck, Keith, please, I can’t,” Shiro writhes under Keith’s touch, hair falling into his face and sticking to the sweat that’s starting to bead there. Keith can see the strain of his muscles holding him back, the unsteady contraction of his abs as he tries to pace his breathing.

“You can, yes you can,” Keith cooes. “God you look so good like this, Shiro. You’re doing so well, I know you can take it, just give me one more.”

“Ah, Keith,” Shiro cranes his head so he can look at Keith while he works him, his eyes watering. Keith presses hard and at a new angle and Shiro arches his back, cresting into bliss and half-moaning, half-laughing.

“It’s—too much, Keith, it’s too much,” he grunts, body lying and continuing to push toward Keith. But the last thing Keith wants to do is make him uncomfortable, so he pulls his fingers out, relieving Shiro at last from the barrage of pleasure. 

Shiro slumps against the table, breathing heavily, laughing weakly. “Keith,” his voice takes on a gravelly quality and Keith wants to climb him like a tree. He groans.

“You okay?”

“Yes. So much more than okay,” Shiro laughs again, wiping tears from his eyes. “I thought I was going to pass out at the end there.”

“Guess we’d better call it quits, then,” Keith shrugs, feigning innocence. 

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro protests, meekly drawing attention to his still-erect and leaking cock. It’s so shy and desperate and cute that Keith can’t help but want to make Shiro work for it. Fondly, he decides to save the ceaseless teasing for another time.

“Don’t worry,” Keith sighs, bending forward and leaning back onto Shiro’s stomach, covering him as much as he can, which is fractional compared to when Shiro does it to him. “I’ll take care of you.”

Keith mouths along Shiro’s obliques, his abdominals, runs his fingers through his thick pubic hair. Then he wraps a hand around the base of Shiro’s length, and applies his mouth to the head.

“Jesus Christ, Keith—I’m too close, please,” Shiro cries, throwing his head back. “Baby, please, need you _in me_.”

Never one to refuse someone in need, Keith listens.

“You okay to stand?” He checks in. Shiro nods. “Good. Get up. Over the table, now.” Keith barks out the orders and Shiro fixes him with a dark look that says he’s into it. Languidly swinging his hips over the side of the table, he settles into a comfortable position on his stomach, backing his ass up against Keith’s crotch and grinding.

“Yes,” Keith sighs, leaning into the contact and rolling his hips up. He and Shiro moan together and it takes a cosmic amount of force to pull him away so he can grab a condom. Stepping out of his leggings, he almost thinks to take off his shirt, too. But a selfish thought wiggles into his mind and he bets he can leave with one of Shiro’s shirts if he makes a mess of his own.

With more lube, Keith presses into Shiro’s entrance again, this time with three fingers. Shiro rocks backward and holds on to the massage table like it’s the edge of a cliff. Keith returns to a steady rhythm, curling his fingers to work Shiro’s sweet spot again, reveling in the smoke-filled howl he makes when he does.

“Keith, I’m ready, _please_ ,” Shiro promises, casting a harried glance at Keith over his shoulder as if he needs convincing.

Keith lines himself up, one hand on Shiro’s lower back for purchase to steady him through the dizzying moment.

“Shiro,” he sighs, admiring the arc of Shiro’s back, the trembling muscles, his quivering shoulders. “You look so good.”

Slowly, Keith slides in to the hilt, losing himself in Shiro’s tight heat, changing his angle so he can lean forward and squeeze Shiro’s cock under the table. Shiro makes an uncertain sound but Keith soothes him with a kiss to his cheek.

“I’ve got you,” Keith promises, and he pulls back to thrust into Shiro with a little more power.

“Fuck!” Shiro chirps, and the massage table jolts with the force of Keith’s thrust and Shiro’s surprise, the legs scraping across the hardwood with a nervous squeak.

Keith grabs a handful of Shiro’s ass, kneading the thick flesh there as he pounds in. He alters between a slow, agonizing push and pull that reduces Shiro to begging, to a piston-rhythm speed that has Shiro singing Keith’s name. 

Keith continues his brutal pace, in disbelief that this is real, that he’s inside Shiro. How different it is from last time and how it’s still so good. Vaguely, he thinks faintly that this probably isn’t what Shiro’s insurance was prepared to cover, but he could honestly care less.

“I’m close,” Keith hisses, digging one hand into the supple flesh of Shiro’s hips and wrapping the other around Shiro’s dick.

“Finally,” Shiro says, still coherent enough to be sassy. Keith squeezes harder on the base of his cock and Shiro grips the table with white knuckles, his voice reduced to a shrill sound when he whines “Keith!”

“Together?” Keith asks, his voice cracking with embarrassment at his own sentimentality. At this comment, Shiro looks over his shoulder to Keith again and nods, just as big of a sap as Keith. Allura’s words come rattling back into his brain then, agreeing that “good match” hardly covers whatever they’ve got going on here.

Keith releases Shiro from his vice, listening to Shiro choke through his orgasm, and the sound is so good that Keith follows him over the edge and he forgets how to say anything besides Shiro’s name.

Before he collapses on top of Shiro, weak with his climax, Keith takes off the condom and tosses it in the garbage. While at the sink, he grabs a washcloth and wets it, returning to Shiro and wiping him down with gentle strokes.

Shiro turns around and sits on the table, trembling. He lets Keith wash him, disorientedly chasing down kisses where he can.

“Keith,” he rasps, his lips tracing Keith’s cheekbone when he finally traps him between his hands. 

“Was that okay?” Keith asks.

“You made me come four times,” Shiro starts, incredulous. “And you’re asking me if that was just ‘okay’?”

They laugh and kiss and shower together, washing each other and then collapsing onto Shiro’s couch together. Keith lays on top of Shiro, happily tangling their legs.

“Stay for dinner?” Shiro asks.

“Sure,” Keith responds. “But I’m cooking.”

“Am I that bad?”

“A regular kitchen nightmare, I’m afraid,” Keith admits. Shiro is good at everything else though, so he doesn’t feel bad at saying so. He tells him as much.

“That’s not true,” Shiro pouts. His modesty is becoming, but Keith still thinks he ought to be more confident about his abilities.

“It is,” Keith says, pressing kisses into his neck, loving the feeling of Shiro’s big, calloused fingers rubbing circles on his hips. When the rubbing stops suddenly, Keith looks up and sees that Shiro has fallen asleep. As much as he wants to watch Shiro’s peaceful, sleeping face, he is quick to follow suit.

*

They wake up when Keith’s phone rings with an alarm to take the dog out.

“Ah, we fell asleep,” Shiro tuts, rubbing his eyes. “I totally forgot about dinner.”

Keith grunts and curls further into Shiro’s arms. His stomach rumbles and he remembers how they spent the afternoon, letting the pleasurable memory wiggle through him, the lingering bliss floods his abdomen. Shutting off his alarm, he sighs at the prospect of going back to a reality where he doesn’t get to spend the night with Shiro. “My dog probably hates me right now.”

“Bring him over next time,” Shiro suggests.

“The dog can’t know that I have sex, Shiro. Someone has to preserve his innocence.”

“Noble of you to assume that role.”

They make a quick dinner, sitting side by side at the counter. Keith lets Shiro feed him, which he has never let anyone else do in his entire life.

“Hey,” Keith asks while he’s packing up his bags and cleaning off the massage table. “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

“Not at all,” Shiro shrugs. “I was just going to start job hunting.”

Keith steps back with that. Shiro really is committed to changing career paths. “Wow,” he says. “Let me know if I can help in any way, alright?” 

“Thanks,” Shiro says, pulling him in for a grateful kiss. “Baby.”

“You are very qualified for whatever you choose to do,” Keith tells him, turning back to finish cleaning up the table.

“What are _you_ doing this weekend?” Shiro asks, tugging Keith forward by the elastic of his yoga pants before he can get away. Keith bites his lip.

“You should stay at my place this weekend. Pack a bag. Come to a yoga class on Friday. Go out on Saturday. Fuck me into a wall on Sunday.”

Shiro laughs and Keith feels it throughout his entire body like an ocean wave, heavy and warm. “Sounds like a plan,” he rumbles, stroking Keith’s hair. “What time you want me over?”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, the final installment: Shiro and Keith’s wild weekend! Get nasty! I didn’t think I’d get this far with this story but hey. They gotta bone


End file.
